


Sounding

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gap Filler, M/M, Season/Series 01, Series, Sounding, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <img/><br/>Brian teaches Justin the art of urethral sounding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounding

**Author's Note:**

> Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a story in the [Everything He Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880530) collection of stand-alone stories. The gorgeous banner was made by Urugwaj.

SOUNDING

Every time I walk into Woody’s I feel like I’m going to puke. Either Brian won’t be there, and I’ll be crushed with a disappointment so intense it makes me nauseous, or he _will_ be there, and I’ll be terrified to the point of nausea that he’ll ignore me – or worse. Daph tells me it’s because I’m in love. If someone had warned me that falling in love would make me want to barf, I might’ve stayed home That Night.

Yeah, right.

He’s here tonight. When I walk in, he signals for me to join him, Michael, Emmett and Ted at the bar. He looks happy and relaxed; I can tell by the way his body moves – generous and careless – sitting on a bar stool with legs spread and an arm slung over Michael’s shoulders. When I’m close enough, he grabs the front of my shirt and tugs me into a kiss. When he pushes me away again, I know that I’m grinning like a moron. He’s not drunk or high (yet). This is the first time he’s ever kissed me in public when he’s completely sober. It’s A Huge Big Deal. He smirks at me as though he knows what I’m thinking – he probably does.

“So, Bri,” says Ted. “You gonna show Justin your new toys?” He nods at a long, thin wooden box sitting on the bar. It looks like the kind of box you store paint brushes in.

“No, he is _not_ going to show Justin his new toys,” Michael says. He crosses his arms and glares at Ted. “Boy Wonder is too young for stuff like that.”

“I’m not too young,” I protest. I hate it when Michael acts like a conscience; sometimes Brian actually listens to him.

“Trust me, honey,” Emmett says, putting an arm around my shoulders, “you really _are_ too young. I didn’t see my first sound until I was old enough to drink and even then I almost fainted.”

I snatch Brian’s beer and take what I hope looks like a manly swig. Brian frowns at me, and I return his bottle. “I’m old enough to drink,” I say, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Brian’s frown turns into a scrunch of disgust. “See, I just drank.”

“Legally,” Emmett says by way of clarification.

Michael clears his throat like a school teacher trying to get the attention of his class. “Brian, go put those in the Jeep. They must’ve cost a fortune. Someone might steal them.”

Brian snorts. “Not likely. I had ‘Brian Kinney’ stenciled in gold on the inside lid.”

Emmett laughs, and Ted raises his beer in a gesture of admiration.

“Well, then you’ll lose track of them when you get drunk.” Michael is still bravely fighting his futile battle with Brian’s id.

“I’m not going to get drunk.”

They all look at him with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t sound when I’ve been drinking . . . and don’t you assholes do it either. You’ll puncture your bladders, and I’ll have to slap you. Hard.”

Ted shudders. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want to cock-stuff drunk _or_ sober.”

By this time, I’m dying with curiosity. “Come on,” I wheedle. “What’s in the box?”

Emmett puts both hands on my shoulders and attempts to steer me toward the door. “It’s a school night,” he says. “Time to go home and study.”

“I already did my homework before I came here.”

“Then it’s time for a deep cleansing facial.”

“I don’t do facials.”

Brian laughs and lifts Emmett’s hands off my shoulders. “Now, don’t try to impede the child’s thirst for knowledge.” He grins at me, and my heart turns over.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Michael says emphatically.

Ted nods. “I have to agree. I think he’s done enough experimenting for the time being. Let him get used to something benign and unthreatening before you . . .”

Brian gives him one of his contemptuous expressions – for once I’m not the target. It feels like a victory.

“Hello,” he says. “Who’s the expert here? He doesn’t even know what sounding is, let alone be able to consent to it . . .”

“Which means you’re _not_ taking him home,” Michael says with his unique brand of puppy-dog hope.

Brian gives him a mischievous smile. “I didn’t say _I_ can’t consent.” He kisses Michael on the forehead, and grabs the box with one hand and my sleeve with the other. Michael is still yelling after us – something about “this not ending well” – when the door closes behind us.

Brian is grinning as we walk to the Jeep. We get in, and he carefully places the box on the backseat. “You know what’s hilarious,” he says, starting the engine. “It hadn’t occurred to me to do this with you until the boys started flipping out. I was just going to go home and do it by myself.”

“Do what?” I ask, trying to keep the trepidation out of my voice. As curious as I am, I’m still a little afraid – scratch that – a lot afraid of Brian. He’s moody and unpredictable. One second he can be playful, the next cruel. And he’s an adult. I don’t have much experience hanging around with adults. The only adults I’ve spent any real time with (as opposed to teachers at school) are my parents and relatives and my parents’ friends. The interactions always go pretty much the same:

 _How’s school going, Justin? So, you’re a senior, huh? Gosh, I can remember when you were just in kindergarten. Time sure has flown by, hasn’t it?_.

_What are your plans for the summer? My son/daughter is going to be a counselor at Camp Whompagogganog. It sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun – more fun than working at the Country Club._

_Are you still drawing those adorable . . . what are they called again? ‘Pokemeon’ was it?_

_So, have you been thinking about which colleges you’ll be applying for. My son/daughter is looking at Harvard, but I’m not sure he'll/she’ll be as challenged there as at Yale. Pity Yale is located in a crime-infested ghetto . . ._

_My, how you’ve grown! How do your parents afford to keep you clothed?_

Or my very favorite . . .

 _So, do you have a girlfriend, Justin? You’re certainly a catch – so cute and smart and talented. Girls should be falling all over you_.

Like my parents’ friends and relatives, Brian is definitely an Adult with a capital “A,” but he’s an Adult whose every other word is a profanity. He can be condescending as hell, but he doesn’t treat me like a child – if that even makes sense. And he does Adult things like wear suits and work at a company and own an apartment. He’s already been to – and graduated from – college. He has money and his own car. He bosses people around and never feigns interest if he’s “bored out of his fucking mind.” He’s unapologetic and easily annoyed . . .

. . . but the thing that’s most scarily Adult about him is his jaded worldliness. He pops pills, smokes pot, snorts coke and drinks the kind of liquor my dad keeps in a locked cabinet. He’s completely unashamed about anything – even the huge boners he seems to get every five minutes. He just strolls around the loft, munching a snack or listening to phone messages, with a giant throbbing hard-on so stiff it points up. He’s exceedingly proud of the fact that he can hang multiple towels on his cock, and he loves to casually push it down and let it snap back up. Most amazingly, he’ll stroke himself when we’re watching T.V. or talking on the phone about work shit. It seems as automatic for him as breathing.

I can never in a million years imagine I’ll ever be like that.

“They’re called ‘sounds.’”

We’re sitting on his bed with our clothes still on, looking at an array of blue-tinted steel rods of some kind. Each is nestled in its own velvet-lined slot inside the box.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Pick one up.”

It’s cool in my hand and smoother than smooth. He flicks it gently with his finger, and it vibrates with a low hum.

“That’s why I decided to get rid of my old set,” he says. “Had less vibration, and more vibration is a good thing – a _very_ good thing. So, Sunshine, go ahead; make a guess.”

Goddamn it. He loves putting me on the spot. I blush.

“Uhm, I don’t know. You, uhm, put them in your ass?”

He rolls his eyes, but his mischievous smile doesn’t fade. “Remember how my cock fills you up and leaves you begging for more?”

I blush again; I can’t help it. He talks so . . . frankly about things.

“Think one slim rod could meet your needs? No, you don’t stick these guys in your ass; you stick them in your cock.”

Oh. My. Fucking. God. I can’t help it; I grab my crotch and cringe. Why? Yes, I get the dildos and, now that he’s used one on me, cock rings, but putting a long steel rod – the biggest of which is almost a foot-long and has the width of two pencils – in your dick simply CANNOT feel good.

He grins when he sees my reaction. “Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” he says.

I desperately don’t want to say what I know I must say, but I do anyway . . .

“Brian, I don’t want to do it . . . I’m sorry, it’s just . . . your friends were right; I’m not ready for something like this. I know you think I’m being a girl, and you’ll probably kick me out and never want to see me again. But I don’t want to do this.”

I expect him to turn dark and mean like he sometimes does and mock me for being a “scared little faggot,” but he doesn’t. Instead his expression opens up into one of his rare uncomplicated smiles.

“Good for you, Sunshine.” There isn’t even a hint of disdain in his voice; in fact he sounds pleased and proud. “ _Never_ let anyone pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do. Including me.” He reaches out and cups my cheek, gently pulling me forward until he’s kissing me.

His face is flushed when he leans back again. He unbuttons his shirt and plays with first one nipple and then the other, tugging them and rolling them between his fingertips. He’s looking at me with That Look. I start taking off my shirt, but he stops me.

“Don’t get undressed,” he says. “I’m giving you the control tonight.”

I look at him perplexed. Ninety-nine percent of the time I spend alone with Brian, I’m naked. He just smiles at me and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. Then he unbuckles his belt. As always, I feel light-headed and impossibly turned-on. He takes off both his jeans and his underwear. I’m surprised when I see that his cock is only partially hard. He looks amused. My surprise must be written all over my face.

“Jerked off in the bathroom,” he says. “You shouldn’t have a raging hard-on when you start sounding. Your urethra is too constricted when you’ve got a boner.”

Oh. _Oh!_

“You’re going to do it to yourself,” I say. “Holy shit! Won’t it hurt?”

“First of all, the answer for me is no, it doesn’t hurt. I’ve been doing it for years. Second, I’m _not_ going to do it to myself. _You’re_ going to have the honor.”

That seems like a very _very_ bad idea. I shake my head. “I don’t know how,” I say. “I’ll end up hurting you.”

“If it starts to hurt in a bad way, I’ll let you know immediately. Come on, you’ll be good at this. Artists have steady hands.”

It’s true. I do have steady hands.

“You _promise_ you’ll make me stop?” I say pleadingly.

“I promise,” he says softly, soothingly, and props himself up with his pillow.

I nod and gingerly pick up the smallest of the rods. Brain laughs.

“I can take all of them except the last two – I’m trying though, practice makes perfect. Use the third thickest. I’ve been craving this all day. Here,” he hands me the lube. “It’s glycerin-free. Never sound with regular lube; the sugar in it’ll give you a urinary tract infection. Get as much as possible on the rod and the tip of my cock.”

I’m going to faint. I know I’m going to faint. It’s like that time I donated blood and watched the syringe fill. My breathing is shallow as I carefully insert the tip of the rod into his slit.

He must see my queasiness because he smiles at me reassuringly.

“You’re doing great,” he says. “Now lift my cock and let go of the rod; it’ll slip in as deep as possible on its own. Gravity is a beautiful thing.”

I swallow and take a deep breath as I watch inches of steel slide into his body. He winces and then tips his head back with a groan.

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good,” he says. He spreads his legs wider, and the rod slips even deeper.

“It does?” I whisper as though I’m at church – for some reason I feel like I should. “It looks painful.”

“It can be when you’re a beginner,” he says. “But, like I said, I’ve been doing this for years. I used to nearly faint at first, but now my cock craves it.” He lifts his head and looks at me. “Someday yours will too. Now gently push it deeper.”

Even my steady hands shake a little as I insert the last couple of inches. I look at Brian’s face, hoping I’ll be able to read his reactions to the sensation. 

He looks positively blissful.

“I can’t go any deeper,” I whisper.

“Actually, you can,” he says. “But I’ll do it. I don’t want to freak you out too much.” He holds the rod between his thumb and middle finger and slowly pushes it in, wincing when he overcomes the barrier I’d encountered. “Oh God,” he says, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Is that ‘oh God this feels good,’ or ‘oh God, this hurts like hell?” I ask, still whispering.

“Definitely, ‘oh God, this feels good,'” he says. He’s breathing shallow and fast. “Here,” he says, pulling my hand toward him so I can hold the rod again. “Fuck me with it. Just an inch or two though. The pleasure comes from the pressure the rod puts on your bladder and prostate.”

I do what he says as carefully as I can. He’s hard now, and the rod slides easily. He’s clearly trying to keep himself from thrusting – a fact for which I’m very glad. His throat and chest are flushed and shiny with sweat. He grabs my other hand and puts it between his legs, encouraging me to press my fingertips against the hard ridge behind his balls.

I can feel the rod moving inside him. Arousal slams into me like a runaway train.

“Just a little deeper,” he moans. “I’m gonna come.”

His hair is damp and clinging to his forehead. His eyes are still shut. It’s only a matter of seconds till he shoots . . .

. . . or rather pulses. His come doesn’t spurt like it usually does; instead it gushes out around the sound for what seems like forever. When he finally opens his eyes, he looks a little lost, and it takes a moment for him to come back down to earth. He grabs my wrist.

“Don’t move,” he says breathlessly. “Let me do this. Putting the rods _in_ feels good, but pulling them _out_ can hurt.”

He slides the rod out very slowly and then braces himself as he pulls the last two inches free.

“Fuck!” he shouts. “Fuck, that fucking kills!” He’s still panting when he opens his eyes and looks at me. He gives me one of his grins. “But it’s more than worth it.”

He gets up and cleans the rod in the sink. “Baby shampoo and rubbing alcohol,” he says from the bathroom. “Which is why you _never_ want to sound with someone else’s rods. You don’t know if they’ve been cleaned properly; chances are they probably haven’t.”

I smile at his didactic tone. Only Brian can go from having his cock stuffed to lecturing about safe sex in a heartbeat. 

He comes back to bed and puts the rod back in its box and then puts the box in a drawer in the nightstand. “You were great,” he purrs darkly. “How about a reward – or three?”


End file.
